The road is the cauldron.
Throw in a toddler, four-and-one-half.
Throw him onto
an asphalt road scorching in
the summer, or throw him
into a fire in the
brisk November air.
Then toss a bundle in his arms
and turn the gears
and wheels,
and wheels that sped away
from what used to be
their home.
A liter of rain,
wet on lashes and button nose,
wet down the throat
of a
father,
out the neck
of a Whiskey bottle.
An ounce of hand-me-down
responsibilities;
a pint of childhoods gone
wrong.
Crack the shell of two
hearts against the bowl,
and whisk the contents with
a beater until golden and thoroughly,
utterly blended.
A few pinches of reticence
through
collected words and
a fright of setting them free.
A couple of shakes of
I Love You's easily
said to
everyone but
those who mattered.
Few shreds of confessions lost
at the corners of their mouths,
sediments that
gradually
plastered them shut for good.
Grind down a fine flour
—oh, make it satin fine, if you will.
Dump
the contents on
opposite ends,
but those things
always clump back
together.
Just a couple daubs of solitude,
wordless rapport,
amid the
silence with chins raised
high, and splash
it off with a silver of
stars.
Take an ashen sifter,
and pour through its net a crimson
blend of love and devotion and
good intentions,
and watch the blue trickle
out the other end.
Throw in a rubber band
of Love, family, whatever it is,
stretch it to the future and
watch it snap
back by itself.
And wave a wand,
hear the ignition kick in,
stir the pot
and watch the
chunks helplessly
tumble at the mercy of your spoon.
Once in a while
pinch a bit of sweet smiles in
your fingertips and sprinkle
it atop the burgundy that becomes
what they've bled.
Don't forget this step,
or bitter
will the stew become.
The fire lights,
and the sun blares too hot so they
ride with the windows down
and the wind whisking
stray hair
into their eyes.
The road is the cauldron, and
it brewed a love kindled
by battered faces and
bleeding knees,
matching scars and
matching stitches.
Closed hearts and
scorching suns and
fires in November air.
Crimson blends of love
and love
and love
bleeding down his lips as he
watched the boy in a baby blue blanket fall
into that fire once
again. By
redundant words
better unsaid, because
all it really takes is an accidental flare
that dances across an iris and
everything
is understood.
x
Take a soul, and cut it in half.
Mold two bodies from little stars.
Amalgamate in collective silence.
Then,
Throw in the toddler,
four-and-one-half,
and toss the other in his arms.